Le Chateau Diamant
by musicprincess1990
Summary: Sherlock and Molly go undercover as husband and wife to investigate disappearances at a chateau resort in France. A few unexpected mysteries are solved along the way. Sherlolly from start to finish, please review!
1. Chapter 1

_**Chapter One**_

Molly blinked owlishly at the detective. "I… I'm sorry?"

He frowned. "I believe I was perfectly clear, Molly. We'll be posing as husband and wife."

She swallowed hard as she attempted to make sense of what was happening. Sherlock had explained the situation: his client was a maid at a rather elite hotel in the south of France, one that was a very popular honeymoon destination for the rich and famous. Several employees and guests—all young and female—had gone missing, inexplicably, and she had reason to believe she was next. She, the client, had elected to take a short holiday in England, and sought the assistance of the famous Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had taken the case (despite his disgruntled complaint that it was "no more than a seven"), and for the purpose of working undercover, immediately called the first unattached woman who came to mind.

Molly still couldn't decide how to feel about being called. It would be easy to feel flattered, and just as easy to feel insulted. Though, with Sherlock, she knew neither was his intent. He was all business, just looking for something to help him with the case. So… maybe insulted _was_ easier.

"When?" she asked plainly.

He regarded her with mild surprise; evidently, he had expected some level of protest. But Molly had learned, long ago, that when it came to Sherlock, it was much easier to just go along with it. Besides, she knew he would never take no for an answer, and would have several arguments handy should she attempt to disagree with him.

"I've arranged for a three-night stay weekend after next," Sherlock explained. "We will arrive Thursday, at approximately four o'clock in the afternoon, under the pretense of a wedding trip. Mycroft will be footing the bill—he owes me a favor—and we will be 'honeymooning,' as John so eloquently put it, while also investigating. With any luck, I'll be able to solve the case during that weekend, but if need be, we can always extend our stay. It certainly wouldn't break my heart to spend a bit more of Mycroft's money," he added with a playful smirk.

"Right," she said distantly, still astonished by the turn of events. _Pretending to be Sherlock's wife…?_ It was as if her happiest dreams and her worst nightmares had collided. She loved the man with all her heart, and had wanted to be so close to him for some time, but for _real_ , not for a case. This would undoubtedly be torture… of the sweetest kind. _I should say no_ , she feebly attempted to reason with herself. She couldn't see any possible scenario in which this would turn out well. That is, the way she would like, with Sherlock proclaiming his undying love and asking her to be his _real_ wife. But…

A new scenario played out in her head. One in which this fake honeymoon was _just_ what she needed to finally get over him. She'd heard of marriages going belly-up because of hidden flaws and nuances found once the couple actually _lived_ together. And though she believed she knew quite a lot of the detective, and his flaws, there might be one thing he had managed to keep from her, which would be so abysmal, so abominable, that she could never look at him the same way. And with that, she would _finally_ be free of him.

So… it wasn't the ending she _wanted_ … but perhaps it was the one she _needed_.

"Okay," she said with finality. "When do we start planning?"

* * *

The fated Thursday arrived, and Molly woke early to finish packing. She'd packed the basic essentials—clothes, shoes, etc.—the night before, and all she had left was toiletries and such. She packed light layers, knowing the French climate would be a good deal warmer than gloomy England, and even included a few sundresses which had been ignored for many years. She sincerely hoped they still fit, but hadn't had the time to try them on. _If they don't, I'll just buy something new_ , she shrugged. She was by no means destitute, and though she would take care to limit her purchases, she could afford to splurge now and again. Especially with the greater portion of this trip's expenses being managed by Mycroft.

Despite Sherlock's cavalier acceptance—or rather, delighted encouragement—of his brother's financial involvement, Molly felt a bit apprehensive. She had only met Mycroft on a few occasions, and she was quite intimidated by the eldest Holmes brother. He always wore a sour expression, spoke as if he were above everyone else (which, to be honest, he _was_ ), and left one feeling dreadfully inadequate. Part of her worried this little excursion would encourage his disapproval of her.

 _Stop it, Molly_ , she scolded herself. _You don't need Mycroft's approval. You're trying to distance yourself from the Holmes men, not get closer_.

Despite this firm reminder, Molly sank onto her bed with a sigh. This was a tremendously ambitious undertaking. For the last five years, almost the entire time she had known Sherlock Holmes, she had been in love with him. Even when she was with Jim the Bastard and "Meat Dagger" Tom, she secretly carried a bloody torch for the impossible detective. And now, she didn't even have a boyfriend to use as a distraction. It would just be her and Sherlock, alone, in a romantic hotel, pretending to be married.

Several deep breaths later, Molly had rallied her spirits and resumed packing. She reviewed the clothing she'd chosen, and decided to add a few more dresses (courtesy of her mother, who never gave up hope that her eldest daughter would marry some rich, handsome man). She even packed a hanging bag with a fancy red dress, which she had never worn. _Perhaps_ , she mused with a smile. And then, in a daring move that caused her to blush, she packed the strappy yellow bikini, given as a prank gift from her baby sister at her engagement party. "Wear it on your honeymoon," Laney had said. Well… this was as close as she was likely to get.

With her bags sorted and zipped, Molly turned her attention to her current attire. Having checked the weather report, she knew Nice would be a balmy 26 degrees Celsius. She also knew it would be a short flight, and therefore almost no point in bringing a change of clothes on the plane. _Layers_ , she reminded herself, and planned her outfit accordingly. She donned the only sundress she hadn't packed—a navy blue, floral number—paired it with a white cardigan, added a belt at the waist, and a pair of boots to match (she wasn't in France _yet_ , after all). Satisfied, she pulled on a long coat and gathered her hair at the back into a haphazard knot.

A moment later, she heard the buzz of the intercom, announcing Sherlock's arrival. Briefly surprised that he had even bothered with the intercom, Molly stood in silence for a moment. Snapping to her senses the next moment, however, she gathered up her bags and made for the door.

Sherlock stood with a vacant expression, which transformed into a rehearsed smile, which did not meet his eyes. "Ready?" he asked.

"Ready," she nodded, and Sherlock helped her with her bags. Once inside the cab, Molly turned her attention to the passersby and looming structures of London. For the first time, she felt excited at the prospect of a holiday, even if the circumstances were a bit… strange. Still, she was determined to enjoy herself, and to achieve her goal of falling out of love with Sherlock. And as the cab pulled away from her flat, she felt almost as if the people on the street were cheering her on.

"You're uncharacteristically quiet, Molly," Sherlock observed.

A reflexive apology rose in her throat, but she stamped it down. She had no reason to apologize. In fact, he was probably grateful for her silence. He was always telling her things like, _Don't make jokes, Molly_ , or, _Don't feel the need to make conversation, Molly_. So, in response to his comment, she merely gave a quiet shrug, and turned her attention back to the passing streets of London.

In the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Sherlock turn his head toward her, but she wasn't about to look at him to find out. Step One of her plan (the plan she was just now formulating) was to avoid temptation. Which meant not gawking at him like a schoolgirl. And not giving in to his flirtations. The man was notorious for using any means to achieve his ends, and on more than one occasion, he had flattered her into giving him what he wanted. Usually, that meant access to the morgue. Sometimes, an assortment of dismembered body parts. But whatever the favor he needed, his flirting was usually the same. A gentle smile, a sudden compliment, a kiss to the cheek. And she melted like butter. _No more_ , she swore to herself. _I'm going to be strong now_.

The remainder of the ride to Heathrow passed in silence, and neither of them spoke as they boarded the plane. As soon as Sherlock sat down, taking the aisle seat, he assumed his "mind palace pose," as Molly had heard John call it. Eyes closed, hands steepled against his lips, and back straight, Sherlock became oblivious to the world around him. That suited Molly just fine, as his quick eyes and sharp tongue were always her undoing. She removed her coat and stuffed it into the overhead compartment, while keeping her handbag, and took her seat. She tried not to step on Sherlock's toes, and glanced at his face as she passed. He remained oblivious, and she breathed out a sigh of relief.

As the plane took off, she watched the city grow smaller and more distant, until nothing but clouds could be seen. At that point, she pulled _Sense and Sensibility_ out of her handbag, and treated herself to the shameless flirting of John Willoughby. _He really is a scoundrel_ , she thought with a silent laugh. She hadn't gotten far before she noticed a slight twinge at the back of her head, and pulled the knot out of her hair to relieve the tension.

In seemingly no time at all, the pilot announced their descent. Molly looked at her traveling companion for the first time since boarding. He didn't seem to have heard, or if he had, he didn't care. Of course, it might also be that he had important details to catalog, concerning the case. With this thought, she suppressed a sigh. It wouldn't do to be disappointed. _She_ might be on holiday, but for him, this was work. _To be fair, though_ , she mused, _for him, they're almost synonymous_.

When they landed, Molly took it upon herself to break the silence. "Shall we?" she asked cheerfully.

Sherlock started from his mind palace when Molly addressed him. He didn't bother to look at her, just nodded to whatever she had said, and stood. They were in Nice, and a car would be waiting for them outside to take them to the hotel, Le Château Diamant. He remained in something of a daze, still sifting through details of the case, what little he had gathered from his client. When he came to, it seemed he had lost sight of Molly. Not one to fret over such matters, he continued his path toward the terminal. He would certainly find her by the baggage claim. He paid no mind to any other faces that stood in his way, simply cutting a path through them.

"Sherlock, wait!"

He turned at the familiar voice, scanning for Molly. When he found her, he froze. Blinked once, twice, and stared. His mind came to a screeching halt at the sight before him. Was _this_ Molly? He had never seen her like this before. He recalled a Christmas, some years ago, at which she dressed up and he tore her to pieces. And though he was genuinely sorry for being so cruel, he had to admit, she was an easy target back then, not to mention she had overdone it with the skin-tight black dress and ridiculous bow in her hair.

But this… this was an entirely new side to the pathologist. Her hair hung free and careless, and her short, floral dress, though it caught it by surprise, was also so thoroughly _Molly_ , that it far surpassed the Christmas dress in his estimation. This was Molly, undoubtedly, but Molly unchained, Molly uninhibited. This, he thought with a suppressed grin, was _Molly on holiday_.

And he had never seen anything so beautiful.

Sherlock blinked again, even giving his head a little shake. _What the devil?_ he asked himself. _Beauty? No. It's just the heat._ He was a creature of winter, of the stormy grey London skies, of long coats and scarves and rainy afternoons at Baker Street. And as such, the warmth of the French climate was certainly toying with his perception of reality. It had happened before. Oh, he could remember one dreadful heat wave, some years back… but never mind. The fact of the matter was, it was just the heat.

"Sherlock?"

He turned to Molly, who had reached his side, and was looking at him with furrowed eyebrows. _Ah, yes, she probably wants some sort of explanation_. "Just headed over to the baggage claim," he said.

"Oh, right," she nodded, then smiled. "Let's go, then!"

Sherlock led the way to the baggage claim, and they quickly found their bags and left the airport. A man in a very crisp, very expensive suit held up a sign with Sherlock's name, though it was hardly necessary; he'd spotted the man and deduced his intent before he was within range to read the sign. The man, likewise, seemed to recognize Sherlock instantly, and no words were exchanged as they ventured out of the airport.

"So, headed to the hotel now, yes?" Molly asked once they reached the car.

"To the hotel," he confirmed, "which reminds me." Sherlock reached into his pocket and produced two rings, a gold band for himself, and the traditional diamond for Molly. "Make it official," he said with a sardonic raise of his eyebrow, slipping his own ring onto his finger.

"R-right," she stammered, but slid the ring on, and said nothing more.

Le Château Diamant was very aptly named; the very walls seemed to glitter in the warm, summer sun, and Molly had to shield her eyes from the glare. It certainly _looked_ like a castle, complete with turrets, moat, and drawbridge. The moat, on closer inspection, was very shallow, and mostly for looks, with surprisingly clean water and no sign of fish whatsoever. A large, ornate fountain rested in the center of the drive, water bubbling up from the center and pooling below. And just beyond the _chateau,_ Molly could just see a bit of the impossibly blue ocean, and white, sandy beach.

Inside, the hotel was extravagant, elegant, and a bit on the side of _sensory overload_. Luxurious furniture surrounded her, and the walls bore exquisite murals and designs. The carpet looked incredibly soft, and a quick, "accidental" act of dropping her handbag allowed her to confirm this hypothesis. And above them hung a brilliant chandelier, made of what was likely real crystal and pure gold.

 _Not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy_ , she joked with herself.

Molly trailed behind Sherlock as he approached the main desk. He conversed easily in French with the concierge, undoubtedly earning great respect from the man as such. Molly picked up on a few phrases here and there, based on the two years of French she'd taken in school, but for the most part, their conversation was lost on her. Eventually, the concierge handed Sherlock two keys, a pamphlet, and gave a polite smile and a quick bow of his head. He gestured to a nearby bellman, who immediately came to help with their bags, and directed them to the lift. They stopped on the third floor, and were lead to room number 306. The bellman opened the door, and Molly gasped in delight.

Their room was spacious, but not over-large, with a luxurious bed at one wall, a sofa, and two matching chairs nearby. Every piece of furniture was of the classical French style, though with modern fabrics and patterns. The entire wall opposite the door was windows, windows, windows, only a few slices of plain wall in between, and thick drapes hung gracefully at their sides. It even had a _vanity_ , just on the other side of the bed, and the walls and furniture bore a theme of pale greens, soft greys, and luminous whites. A door just next to the main entrance led to the bathroom, and though it was closed, she was certain it would be just as posh.

"Blimey," she whispered before she could stop herself. She felt like a princess.

" _Merci beaucoup_ ," Sherlock tipped the bellman, and retrieved their bags, before they were left alone in the room.

Molly let out a soft giggle. "God, this is posh, isn't it?"

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. "I suppose so. Better get unpacked. Dinner is served in twenty minutes, and apparently, they don't look kindly on tardiness."

"Oh," she frowned. "Well, then… I'll just go and change," she added, reaching for her bag.

"Whatever for? What you're wearing is love—er, perfectly acceptable."

Molly stared at Sherlock as he corrected his faux pas. _He was going to say_ lovely, _wasn't he?_ Her heart raced at the idea, and she started to smile, but fought the urge with a small shake of the head. _Stop it,_ she scolded. _It doesn't mean anything. You need to get over him, anyway_.

"Nonetheless," she said, "I would feel better if I changed. Get the plane smell off me."

Sherlock frowned in obvious bewilderment, but made no further argument. Molly again reached for her bag, and opened it to retrieve one of the nicer dresses she'd packed ( _not_ the red one). A simple, light-weight frock of mint green, it flowed seamlessly to her knees, with a tasteful square neck. Sleeveless, as were most of the dresses she'd brought, so she kept the white cardigan, just in case it got chilly.

After changing in the bathroom, she emerged and went straight to her bag again. She pulled out a pair of beige ballet flats and slid them onto her feet, before turning to Sherlock.

He was staring at her again, the same blank look on his face as when they were in the airport. She'd thought it was just surprise to see her dressed this way. But now, she almost wondered… but it couldn't be, could it? After all these years, he couldn't… _wouldn't_ … no. It was impossible.

"Dinner?" she reminded him.

"Er… yes," he mumbled, blinking rapidly. "Right." He was quiet for a moment, then he seemed to have regained his bearings, and was Sherlock once again. He opened the door and held it for her, and once he had locked it behind them, they made their way to the dining room. Once again, Molly didn't dare look at the handsome detective beside her, but she could swear she saw him glancing at her more than once, and if she was not mistaken, she thought she even saw him stumble a bit.

Sherlock Holmes… _stumbling_. She didn't know what to make of it. She was sure she'd never seen him out of kilter, not in the slightest. The man was ridiculously composed in every situation. And of course, he would never admit to it, would do everything in his power to make her believe she'd imagined it. But she was quite certain. Something had vexed the great Sherlock Holmes, and… if she allowed herself to hope… that something might just be _her_.


	2. Chapter 2

_Damn this heat_ , Sherlock cursed internally for around the fortieth time since arriving in France. He had never felt so uncomfortable in his entire adult life. He made a point of avoiding the inconvenience of awkwardness and embarrassment, and in doing so he was able to step into almost any situation with perfect composure. An especially lucrative practice for his line of work, it allowed him to see things clearly and objectively. Unfortunately, this ability seemed to be evading him at the moment. He cursed the heat again.

"Sherlock?" Molly's voice broke through his thoughts. He gave a lackadaisical _hmm_ in response, but did not make any further effort to acknowledge her. "Er… your menu is upside-down."

With a start, Sherlock finally looked up at Molly. If he had thought he was too warm a moment ago, he became positively burning hot the moment his eyes connected with hers. _What is happening to me?_ Sherlock blinked a few times, turning his attention to the menu, which was, indeed, upside-down. He righted it, then stared unseeing at the selection of gourmet dishes. After several deep breaths, he felt his temperature return to normal, and his heart, which had inexplicably begun pounding in his chest, calmed to a more acceptable pace.

Molly called his name again, and he realized he must make a fast decision. Somehow, for reasons he was not yet ready to analyze, she had, either directly or indirectly, caused this reaction in him. As they were to be in close quarters for the next three nights, he knew (obviously) he could not keep getting all hot and bothered every time he looked at her. Sherlock stepped quickly into his mind palace, and was immediately greeted by Molly. She wore the blue dress from the airport, and he frowned. "Can't you wear something else?" he demanded.

"That's up to you," she replied simply. "I'm in your head, after all."

Sherlock blinked internally, and in that instant, Molly's outfit changed to an ill-fitted jumper, oversized trousers, and a white lab coat. "Much better," he sighed in relief.

Molly raised an eyebrow. "But the real me is still wearing a pretty dress. You'll have to open your eyes soon, or I'll think something's wrong. And you'll have to look at me, _really_ look at me, and for that matter, you have to pretend you love me."

Sherlock scoffed. "That won't be a problem. I just need to refocus my mind on the task at hand."

"Well, you have about three seconds to do it," she pointed out. "So, how will you fix this?"

He racked his brains for a solution, and in a moment, determined what that solution had to be. He blinked, and Molly had changed into the same green frock the real Molly currently wore. He swallowed hard, allowing himself to observe every detail, looking for something to reconcile this new Molly with the old one, the jumper-wearing Doctor Hooper. Finally, his eyes landed on her hands. Delicate and feminine, but unmatched in steadiness and skill. These were the hands she used to slice up cadavers, to sort through stacks of paperwork, to operate a microscope.

With this anchor established, Sherlock opened his real eyes, and immediately sought out her hands. There they were, curled loosely around the menu she had yet to peruse. He was momentarily distracted by the diamond ring, but reminded himself that it was merely a prop, necessary to maintain their cover. The menu lowered, and he met her eyes. "Sherlock, is something the matter?"

Sherlock smiled gently, taking care to let it reach his eyes. "My apologies, Molly," he said evenly. "I'm afraid I've been a bit wrapped up in the details of the case, and more than a bit discomfited by the change in climate."

She eyed him for a moment, then nodded understandingly. "I suppose that makes sense." Then, with a subtle smirk, she added, "You don't deal well with change."

His eyes narrowed in a glare, but he did not correct her. "In any case, I believe I can endeavor to be myself again. I'm sorry for worrying you."

"Well, I was more confused than worried, but I accept your apology. Now," she changed the subject before he could comment, "what are you having?"

With his anchor firmly in place, Sherlock was able to maintain a state of normalcy. It certainly helped that, often, when Molly spoke, she used hand gestures to emphasize and embellish, making it easy to focus on them, and not rouse suspicion for doing so. He half-listened to whatever childhood memory or workplace anecdote she shared, just enough to be able to respond as needed, but not enough to take his mind off the case. His eyes scanned the spacious and nearly empty dining room, collecting and cataloging data about the few guests around them.

 _Elderly couple, celebrating a wedding anniversary. Husband cheating on wife for at least thirty years, wife hoping for a chance to dissolve the pre-nup and get her fair share of his wealth. Unlikely she will succeed, his failing heart will probably leave her a widow by the end of the year._

 _Newlyweds, heiress and former cabbie. She's ten—no, fifteen—years older, desperate for children. He's desperate for money to pay off his gambling debts. I give the marriage three months._

 _Workaholic business executive. Divorced, two teenage children, and a large dog. Taking a holiday to appease his overly-concerned colleagues. Has his laptop upstairs so he can check his emails and do some remote work. Will probably cut holiday short within a day or two._

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" He looked at Molly, belatedly realizing he had tuned her out in the midst of his deductions. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

She smiled knowingly. "Have you found any suspects?"

"None so far, but it's only been ten minutes."

Her smile grew. "Ah. So for now, it's just gossip."

Sherlock only just resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her. "I don't _gossip_ , Molly."

"You spill the gory details of people's lives—details they would rather be kept silent. Sounds like gossip to me." She lifted an eyebrow, daring him to disagree.

For a split second, his control slipped, and he felt himself growing warm again. That challenging smirk of hers was dangerous, and (though he'd never admit it) immensely attractive. But with a quick glance at her hands, folded and resting atop the table in front of her, he was grounded once again. Matching her smirk, he began his argument in his typical, rapid-fire fashion. "Gossip is idle and trivial discussion of the personal affairs of others, with the intent to foster a negative response or opinion. _I_ am cataloguing data about these people because any one of them could be a suspect, and the smallest detail could, in fact, be a lead. And if I happen to speak my deductions aloud, it is because speaking aloud helps me to process and categorize my findings, not because I enjoy witnessing the reactions of people whom I have dissected—the exception to that being Mycroft. I find endless pleasure in tearing him to bits."

"And yet," Molly countered without missing a beat, "the first things you notice when deducing someone are the torrid affairs, the mountains of debt, the changes in appearance, and the discrepancies. Also known as, the _gossip_ ," she emphasized.

Sherlock faltered. "Well… I… these are… y-you can't find a suspect by figuring out what's _right_ with them," he finally mustered a stammered argument. "It just doesn't work that way."

"No, you're right," she allowed, giving a shrug of one shoulder. "But I think you enjoy finding what's wrong with people more than you admit, even to yourself."

Not for the first time, Sherlock was rendered utterly speechless by Molly Hooper. _And_ , to add insult to injury, she'd made him stammer. _How the bloody hell did she do that?_ He remembered the first time he'd experienced this… effect she had on him. Just before the Fall, when she'd uttered three words he had never expected to hear.

 _I don't count_.

In that moment, it was as if his eyes were truly opened, and at last he saw Molly Hooper— _all_ of her—and what he saw baffled him. Until that moment, she had been his colleague, a competent pathologist, a cat enthusiast, a hopeless romantic, and _yes_ , a trusted friend. Though his interactions with her were typically limited to the lab and the morgue, he was never annoyed or bored with her, a fact that was quite miraculous in and of itself. Very few people earned his good opinion, and fewer still managed to keep it. Molly was, beyond any doubt, one of the few, and had been almost since their first meeting.

But with those three words, he realized her ignorance of that fact. She had absolutely _no idea_ just how vital she was to his life. And, to be quite frank, nor did he. Hearing those words, soon followed by an offer of assistance from her at any time he might have need of it, opened his eyes to just how large a part of him she had become.

And oh, that terrified him.

Now, more than three years later, he was experiencing much the same effect. Her assessment of his behavior toward others, casual in its delivery but by no means insubstantial, prompted him to begin a meticulous self-appraisal. As he quickly walked through the few memories he had of various verbal deductions, his stomach twisted with an emotion he rarely felt: guilt. She was right, dammit! He'd torn apart every single person he called "friend," at one time or another. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson… even John, his _best friend_ , had been at the receiving end of countless diatribes, enduring barbs about his weight, his clothing choices, his taste in women (those had ceased since Mary came into the picture), and his lack of intelligence. But really, he was smarter than a great many people, and certainly more tolerant.

And Molly… well, he'd recognized early on that his treatment of Molly was abhorrent. He recalled once again the Christmas party from hell, then shoved the memory back. It was nothing short of shameful, and he only kept the memory to remind him never to sink so low again.

Prompted by the growing guilt-monster in his gut, Sherlock cleared his throat. Molly, whose eyes and attention had wandered, snapped her head toward him at the sound. "I… I am sorry. I know I… often behave badly. I always have, and for many years, I didn't care in the slightest. However, you, and the select few others whom I trust, do not deserve to be treated like suspects. I cannot promise to always be kind, but… I will try."

It seemed it was Molly's turn to be speechless. She stared at him, open-mouthed, and blinking slowly. Then, her eyes misted over, and he worried he'd said something wrong. But before he could review and search for the misstep, she smiled. "Sherlock… that has to be the nicest thing you have ever said." _Ah. Not sad tears, then._ "And I'm sorry, too. I know you're trying to be better, and if I'd known that bringing this whole thing up would make you feel guilty…"

The remainder of her words were lost on him as he spotted movement in the corner of his eye. Behind Molly and across the dining room, a pair of waiters were huddled together, eyeing them suspiciously and whispering to each other. Sherlock realized, as beneficial as this conversation might be to their friendship, it was doing absolutely nothing for their cover, and they ran the risk of ruining the whole operation if they didn't fix it. _Now_.

"…and it is good of you to try, but I don't expect—"

"We'll have to continue this discussion in private, Molly," he whispered, putting on a cheerful, loving smile that clearly startled her. "I'm afraid we're being watched quite closely, and at the moment, we don't look very much like an adoring, newlywed couple." He reached across the table and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "And we can't go blowing our cover, can we?"

Molly's cheeks turned a bit pink at that, but to her credit, she managed a smile of her own. "No," she murmured, "we certainly can't."

"Then prepare yourself, because I'm about to do something that may surprise you." Sherlock lifted her hand and brought her fingers to his lips in a lingering kiss, his eyes locked on hers. Her blush deepened and her hand trembled, but her gaze never wavered. _Impressive_ , he mentally congratulated her. Meanwhile, he was simultaneously watching the waiters as their misgiving turned to disinterest, and marveling over the softness of Molly's skin against his lips. When they separated and went about their work, he upped the ante a bit, turning her hand and pressing his lips into her palm. His eyes closed as he focused on the texture, filing it away for future reference. Her fingertips were somewhat calloused from the use of various medical tools, yet her skin was smooth. He had expected roughness, considering the frequent hand-washing that was undoubtedly part of her job.

 _Why is this information relevant?_ John's voice nagged from the back of his mind. He nearly flinched, but suppressed the urge and fired off an easy excuse. _Molly's hands are my anchor. I don't find it unseemly for me to obtain as much data on them as I can. Besides, this will help sell our cover story._

A quiet thud interrupted his train of thought, and he opened his eyes to find plates being set in front of them. "Bon appétit," their waiter smiled, then turned and walked away.

Molly pulled her hand out of Sherlock's grip and picked up her fork and knife. She avoided his gaze as she all but tore into her lamb. "Looks delicious," she said cheerfully, and eagerly brought a bite to her mouth.

Sherlock watched her eat a few moments more, focusing as always on the movement of her hands. They were steady and sure, despite their earlier trembling, and he imagined she was slicing a cadaver rather than a hunk of meat. _Although_ , he mused, _they are almost the same thing_. He smiled to himself, then he picked up his own utensils and started on his own meal, a light coq au vin.

"I thought you didn't eat on a case?" Molly asked between bites.

"Keeping up appearances," he explained. "I won't eat all of it, just enough to ward off suspicion. The less I eat, the less time it will take to digest, and the quicker my mind's return to full capacity will be."

"Huh," was the only reply he received.

Sherlock glanced about the dining room, finding them once again the object of speculation, this time from the elderly couple in the corner. This was why he typically refrained from going undercover with someone else, particularly in situations where they would be so closely observed. It was exhausting, and the chances of slipping up were increased when another person was included in the ruse. Nonetheless, they had no alternative, and therefore, steps would have to be taken.

Racking his brains, Sherlock tried to think of things normal couples did together. Of course, his frame of reference was limited to his parents, and John and Mary. Not the most solid of foundations, but he'd witnessed more than enough affection between each pair to be able to replicate, nauseating though it may be. And in truth, the whole hand thing with Molly hadn't been altogether unpleasant. With any luck, all further interactions would be just the same.

Calling on the first example that came to mind, Sherlock lifted his fork, on which was speared a bite of his chicken. "Molly, you must try this."

Her eyes darted up to meet his, flickered down to the fork, then back again. "Pardon?"

A scathing remark was at the tip of his tongue, but he forced it down like castor oil and smiled. "Try it," he repeated. "It's delicious."

Molly looked warily at the bite of chicken, then inched forward and opened her mouth. He carefully stretched out his arm, bringing the bite within her reach, inwardly cringing at the ridiculousness of the whole display. But as her teeth sank into the small piece of meet, dragging it off the fork, his stomach clenched and his mouth went dry. He watched, enthralled, as she chewed almost languidly, her eyes fluttering closed. The soft moan that escaped her throat sent a shock through him, and he sucked in an involuntary breath. Fortunately, she didn't seem to have noticed.

"God, that's good," she sighed contentedly, bringing her fingers to her lips.

Sherlock swallowed thickly, but managed a smile. "I told you."

Molly smiled behind her fingertips, and Sherlock noted that her eyes lit up as she did. He had never cared before, but strangely, he found himself wishing she would smile more often, and thinking of ways _he_ could make her smile in the future.

Good Lord, he was in trouble.

"Your turn, now," she said, lifting her own fork and offering him a bite of her lamb.

 _It's for a case, it's for a case, it's for a case_. The repeated mantra did little in the way of calming his elevated pulse, but he was able to think and work around it. Sherlock gently closed his fingers around Molly's hand, and closed his mouth around the morsel of lamb, his eyes flitting up to meet hers in time to watch her pupils dilate. Far more slowly than necessary, he drew his head back, removing the now-empty fork from inside his mouth. Molly exhaled shakily, but her hand remained steady. _Interesting_.

"Mmmmm," he moaned deep in his throat when he'd finished. "Excellent choice."

"Th-thanks," she breathed, turning beet-red. Sherlock didn't bother to hide his satisfied smirk. It seemed he wasn't the only one who was in trouble.

* * *

 **SO. FREAKING. LONG. Okay, it's actually a relatively short chapter, but it took** _ **so long**_ **to write. This is difficult, trying to find the right balance between true-to-character-Sherlock, and slowly-discovering-his-feelings-Sherlock. I'm used to the sudden epiphany kind of discovery, rather than the gradually building tension. But it needs to be slow, dammit! Sigh… anyway. Reviews would be appreciated!**


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